One Summer (To Define Forever)
by Shadow Padawan
Summary: Pierre fell in love with Anatole when he was 17. They were still boys then, living a warm, Parisian dream. It was wild and confusing and beautiful. Pierre has changed since then, but the memories haven't.
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note:** i wrote this story for a Big Bang. It's not quite the Pierre/Anatole story I wanted to tell, and it covers a lot more ground than I had initially intended, but I think it still fits. I constantly think and re-think how a romantic relationship for them would fit into canon. In canon, they kinda swing from friends to not-friends to friends again, until Pierre snaps after the whole thing with Anatole/Natasha. It's quite the rollercoaster and any relationships would probably be at least mildly messed up and full of confusion. I don't know if that comes across well in this fic, but it is what it is :)_

* * *

><p>After the war, everything changed. Pierre married Natasha in early spring of 1813, mourned Andrei and tried to move on. For the first time in his life, it seemed, he thought he has understood his path, his purpose in life. Or at the very least, he was at peace. He was married, respected, with his firstborn on the way and a slowly evolving mission. The war was ending, peace was coming and Pierre was doing a fine job of telling himself that he was content and that his new life was completely severed from his old life. If he harbored regrets, he did not allow himself to think on them.<p>

His peace was shattered in late June by Theodore Dolokhov who showed up uninvited one night and asked for a word. Pierre ushered him into his study and closed the door so that they could have as much privacy as possible. He did not know what this conversation was about but Dolokhov looked resolute and Pierre did not want to bring old hostilities into his new peaceful existence. "You said this is important?" Pierre sat behind the writing table and watched Dolokhov who remained standing.

Theodore looked older to Pierre, far more careworn that he remembered. _He rarely smiles these days_, a mutual acquaintance had told Pierre in passing before. Dolokhov was fresh from the front. There were rumors that he had resigned but at that moment he was still in uniform with a black morning band on his left arm. The band was whether worn and tattered. Pierre knew, or thought he knew, in whose honor it was and he found himself uncomfortable, forced to confront his past life which he did not like to do these days.

"I believe you know by now that Anatole died at Borodino," Dolokhov said flatly. He did not flinch at his own words but his entire expression was unreadable.

"Yes," Pierre replied stiffly. "It's…I was sad to hear it." He was somewhat too shellshocked at the time to process the information and since then, Pierre had blocked it out. Everything between him and Anatole had ended too bitterly and he did not want to dredge up those memories but he also felt a terrible sadness at the thought that he never was able to make things right. If anything, Anatole had proven himself to be brave, and Pierre wished he could have given him credit for that when there still had been time.

Dolokhov reached into an inner pocket and took out a stack of papers bound by a string. He set them on the desk before Pierre and stepped back. "Before Borodino Anatole gave these to me. I don't know why, I suppose he must have felt that something would happen. He'd been…despondent all day. Anyway, he asked me to keep them and, in case anything happened, to give them to you. And to tell you that he'd kept them. Even after everything."

Pierre reached out and took the parcel. He took out one of the papers, which he soon realized to be a letter and unfolded it. His own handwriting jumped out at him. _September, 1802. Paris, France. _The date and location jumped out at him, written in his own smudgy hand. He looked up at Dolokhov with wide, questioning eyes. "These are my letters to him. From when…when I was still in Paris and he went back to Petersburg…"

"I would have returned them earlier, Count. But there hasn't been much chance."

Pierre stared uncertainly first at Dolokhov, then the letter.

_Mon Cheri Anatole,  
>It has barely been a weak since you left and I already feel like we have been apart for a year. Everything is so dreadfully boring without you… <em>

He wondered if he might still have Anatole's letters somewhere among his papers. "He had these with him?" he asked, baffled.

"Yes. You never understood, Count, but Anatole…well, it is not for me to speculate. I've done my duty. I must go, if you'll excuse me." He turned to go.

Pierre rose quickly and blurted, without thinking about it, "Dolokhov, wait." He waited for the other man to turn. "I never meant for it to end…like it did."

Dolokhov looked at him steadily, then nodded and left without another word. Pierre collapsed back into his chair. He considered not reading the letters, simply burning them or throwing them away. He did not want to remember this, did not want more guilt and regret to hang over him. He did not want to know that Anatole had kept his letters close to heart even after everything had gone sour. It would be far better to dispose of this written record of his past.

Instead, he picked up the first one from the top, the one he had already unfolded, and began to read…


	2. Part I

Prierre Bezukhov is seventeen years old.

His entire life seems to be based on the simple fact that he is perfectly, blessedly, unbelievably happy. He is young and healthy, living in Paris which he had had the good fortune of calling his home for the past seven years. His days are filled with books and the most stimulating intellectual and philosophical pursuits a young university student could possibly hope for and his nights are afire with wine, merriment and passion.

He is also, as luck would have it, very much in love.

A typical, bright, warm morning finds Pierre in bed among a tussle of rumpled sheets in disarray from last night. He stretches out, keeping his eyes closed and throwing an arm over his face. The sun illuminates the pastel wallpaper, making it glow a welcoming, summary yellow but in Pierre's half-asleep daze it is just a little too bright for him to manage all at once.

Carefully, he lifts his arm from his face and squints one eye open, then the other. Through his eyelashes, he makes out the silhouette of the young man seated on the windowsill with an album and quill. "Morning," he mumbles sleepily. "Are those croissants I smell?"

The boy on the windowsill looks around and smiles warmly at him. 'I believe so. Actually, I was about to wake you up and ask if you wanted to send for some. They should be very fresh – I believe they just brought them out."

Pierre sits up and runs a hand through the mop of dark hair on his head. "They're making me hungry. We should certainly send for some. And tea."

"You're always hungry," Anatole teases with a good-natured smile, turning back to his doodling.

"That's because we live above a bakery. Who thought that would be a good idea?"

Anatole merely smiles serenely in answer.

Pierre reaches for the bell and rings. He tells Anatole's manservant – who has gotten accustomed to taking orders from Pierre over the last few months – to get them croissants from the bakery below and to bring in breakfast when that's done. Once the man leaves, Pierre settles back against the pillows and watches Anatole.

Prince Anatole Kuragin is the most beautiful boy Pierre had ever met. As much as Pierre hates to admit it, he fell in love with Anatole from first sight. He did not quite realize it back then – in fact it took him quite some time to understand and accept his feelings and not without a fair amount of effort in that direction from Anatole – but he had not been able to get Anatole out of his mind from the evening they met. It was terribly cliché and Pierre felt like it was shallow to believe that his feelings were based on a single look, that he might define something as infinite and all-consuming as love by the way he felt when Anatole smiled or tossed his head to get strands of silky strawberry blonde hair out of his face. But what he felt from Anatole was undeniably compelling and it made him unreasonably happy.

He felt like he could sit there for hours, watching Anatole drawing. Neither of them could draw to save their lives, but Anatole always tried. In fact, he didn't seem to care if his sketches came out well or not, he simply enjoyed the process and as long as the end result satisfied him, what everyone else thought became of a secondary nature. In the bright sunlight of the late morning, Anatole's light hair and fair skin seem to glow and radiate. His eyelids flicker in concentration, large, beautiful grey eyes exposed then hidden in rapid succession under long, dark eyelashes. Anatole is slim but tall. Not as tall as Pierre but he is far more shapely and Pierre loves winding his arms around the boy's thin waist, pulling their bodies together. He watches Anatole lick his full, soft lips as he draws the quill in quick strokes across the parchment and Pierre instantly feels his body respond. He nearly blushes.

Even after all this time, after everything they have done together, he is still mildly embarrassed of his physical responses. Pierre is not a religious person – in fact he fancies himself an atheist – and Paris is infamous for its culture of carnal pleasure and revelry, but Pierre is also shy by nature and he supposes that he would be afraid at his own virulence regardless of his lover's sex.

Finally, Anatole closes the album and caps the inkwell. He leaves everything on the windowsill and skips over to the bed, flopping down beside Pierre and meeting his eyes upsidedown. "Hello there."

Pierre smiles affectionately at him, trying to return Anatole's carefree smile, but he can never seem to quite manage the same amount of careless happiness that Anatole seems to radiate. "How long have you been up?"

"Oh not very. Hardly an hour."

"Early for you."

"Hmmm." Anatole reaches out and takes Pierre's hand, twining their fingers together. "I can't decide if I feel lazy today or not. You're not going to study, though, are you?"

"No, not today."

"Oh thank God!" Anatole laughs and Pierre gives his arm a slight slap with his free hand. Anatole only laughs harder. "But it's so boring when you study! Anyway, we could go riding if you want. I think there is a market somewhere today, a festive one with ribbons and sweets and music. Oh, we're also expected at the theater tonight, you remember? Oh and I promised Count de Raffin we would stop by if only for an hour. I know, I know, I should have told you but—"

Pierre leans over and silences Anatole with a long, drawn-out kiss. He can feel himself blushing just slightly but the surprised yet pleased look in Anatole's eyes reassures him. "You've planned the whole day out. Again!" Pierre gives him a teasingly reproachful look.

"Well, will it make you feel better if I tell you Mlle. Marie will be at the theater? The one you liked so much at the ball the other week?" Anatole smirks and sits up to look more comfortably into Pierre's face.

Pierre hides his eyes but cannot help but smile. He had enjoyed the Mlle. Marie's gay laugh and ample cleavage very much. Anatole was not mistaken there. "Well…"

Anatole laughs and gets up. "I'm going down. Those fools must have set up in the dinning room instead of bringing us a tray. Otherwise, it's been far too long. You should ring to get dressed." The young Prince leans over and kisses Pierre one more time. Pierre captures his hand and presses it to his lips. He looks up into Anatole's face and knows that he doesn't care if their liaison is wrong.

Because it does not feel one bit wrong to him.

* * *

><p>"Count de Raffin is the most boring, hypocritical snob of a man I know!" Pierre is so drunk that he can hardly keep his feet. He leans slightly on Anatole's shoulder as they make their way up to their flat. It is long past midnight and they had both had a few too many glasses of wine. "Why do you keep company with him?"<p>

"Stop whining."

"I'm not." Pierre can feel himself pouting. "But did you hear him? He scorns everyone."

"You are simply upset because he will not let you address him as Claude and because he points out that you're a bastard. Which, mon cher, you are."

"Hush! Why do you always take his side?" They tumble into the flat and, brushing off any attempts of Anatole's manservant to assist, proceed to the bedroom.

Anatole kicks the door shut behind them and twirls around in on the spot. "I don't always take his side, I simply enjoy his wine!" He laughs and tugs on Pierre's hand pulling him into a kiss. "Besides, as far as I'm concerned, I don't understand why it bothers you so much. What you are is no secret to anyone and if anything I find it rather…exciting."

Pierre attempts to give his lover a reproachful look through his drunken haze. "What exactly? That my father did not have the honor to marry my mother after leaving her with child?"

Anatole makes a face. "No. Just…Oh, Pierre not now." He grins devilishly and flings off his shirt. "Come here."

Pierre finds himself undressed in minutes. His breath catches repeatedly as every article of clothing comes off. Anatole's fingers are firm and soft as they run over his bare chest and shoulders, slide over his thigh and lower abdomen. Pierre growls low, feeling the heat rising in his groin. He pushes Anatole back onto the bed and strips the last of his lover's clothes. He falls over the boy and presses their bodies together. Anatole is hard and his erection rubs against Pierre's own, sending fireworks through his head.

They kiss desperately and drunkenly, fumbling through the darkness, constantly trying to be closer to each other. Their tongues battle desperately for dominance. Anatole moans low into Pierre's mouth, his whole body trembling under Pierre's hands. It sill takes Pierre some time to work up the courage to get past this point, to roll his lover over, to burry himself to the hilt in the beautiful body of the boy he constantly years to touch. But with Anatole's urging he does just that. In these moments, in the dark they become one and Pierre thinks of the works of the ancient Greeks and their classical beauty. Sometimes, he thinks that Anatole must be some sort of angel or minor pagan God of beauty and desire. Pierre can never resist him, can never look away. He is distant from Christianity and thus has little qualm about making this love his religion and his lover the alter at which he worships. Perhaps, in the light of day he would be ashamed to admit such a thing even to himself but in the drunken darkness with Anatole crying out his name as he comes, Pierre does not much care for the immorality of such a thought.

After they are both spent, Pierre pulls Anatole closer, wrapping an arm around the boy as he nests his head on Pierre's shoulder. "Do you know what I'm thinking?" Pierre murmurs sleepily.

"Hmmm?"

"I'm thinking that we should stay here forever. In Paris, I mean. No one seems to care very much who we are or what we do. And I…I never want to lose this. I never want to lose you."

Anatole makes a noncommittal sound that is something between a laugh and a yawn. "Don't talk nonsense. I'm not going anywhere. Go to sleep, Pierre."

Pierre stills and says no more. He knows Anatole doesn't like it when he speaks of the future, especially after they had just made love. In a few minutes, Anatole's breathing evens out as he falls into sleep, certain that nothing would ever change. Pierre sometimes thinks too much – he knows this – of everything but especially of the future. He knows he has only a spare few months left with Anatole before the boy returns to Petersburg. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend that the night is endless and they will simply continue to lie there like that forever with no worldly things to stand in their way.

Usually it is not very hard for Pierre to convince himself of this. His life had never had much of a direction and it seems the more he thinks about it and tries to find a goal to reach, other than finishing his university studies, he cannot find one. No future he envisions makes much sense to him. Lately, since he and Anatole had fallen into their affair, all of his plans have become even more blurred. He cannot seem to figure out a way to reconcile his desires with the realities that he knows life will eventually bring. Anatole is very adept at not thinking about the future. The boy is practically incapable of planning more than a week ahead. It is both a curse and blessing. Pierre, however, is sometimes plagued by fears he cannot form into actually words and they slip his grasp every time, merely circling like shadows.

Despite these thoughts, Pierre is asleep before the dawn. If he holds on just a little too tightly to Anatole, neither of them will notice by the time morning comes.

* * *

><p>"Pierre! Pierre, come out of the rain. Pierre, come now!' Anatole starts to sound seriously concerned when Pierre ignores him and continues to stand in the middle of the sidewalk, under the downpour, looking up into the sky, burdened with dark, oppressive clouds. In the distance, thunder rumbles just after a flash of purple light streaks across the sky, making the air itself tingle. The thunderstorm is still far away, the thunder a hollow, deep rumble somewhere in the distance. It is even possible to distinguish from which direction it is coming by the relative brightness of the lightening streaks. Anatole, however, hates thunderstorms. They had always made him nervous; as a small child, he would hide from them under the covers. "Pierre!" Besides, the rain had caught them on their way back from a walk. Neither had taken an umbrella so they ended up rather wet.<p>

"Anatole, come here! Feel the rain on your face. Look—look at how vast the sky is. It's like—"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anatole comes back down the steps and grabs Pierre's arm. "Will you come inside now? People will think we're mad." He tries to sound irritated but the flushed and awestruck look on Pierre's face makes him laugh. "My God it's like you've never seen the rain! Besides, it's been raining now and again for the last two weeks. Rains in July, who would have thought."

"I would kiss you to make you hush if there were not people around," Pierre mutters, torn between looking at Anatole and watching the movement of the clouds, which are lumbering at impressive speeds across the sky.

"Well, we're both quite wet, are you satisfied now?" Anatole gives an exasperated sigh. The sky lights up purple and Anatole jumps just slightly at the sudden whip-crack of thunder, now much closer.

Pierre's arm comes to rest at his waist. The street is nearly deserted anyway; only someone like Pierre would be foolish enough to stand outside in a storm. "I love being this close to nature…to…life. Doesn't the whole world feels alive? The chaos is frightening but it is real. All these stone buildings and streets and fabrics – they're but a facades. I don't believe in God, per se, I've told you, but there is this feeling of connectedness. The achievement of man is great. But I do love this…this something else. Do you feel it?"

"I feel cold. And wet." Anatole pouts. Pierre looks over at him, obviously disappointed. "Come inside, you can enlighten me there." Pierre obliges and Anatole drags him along up the stairs, not letting go of his arm until they are within the safety of their flat. "Get a fire lit and quickly. Also take these," Anatole says carelessly to the footman as he and Pierre take off their boots. "And wine. Mulled wine."

They change and settle in front of the fireplace with a bottle of wine. "Now what was all that nonsense you were saying earlier? About connectedness and whatnot?" Anatole asks, trying to show interest in his lover's strange metaphysical philosophies.

Pierre blushes. Now that he is out of the rain, out of the moment, the whole thing does seem quite silly to him. "It's nothing. I was just enjoying the moment. Besides, you look quite something all wet," he adds as a peace offering.

Anatole rolls his eyes. "I don't think it's worth ruining a good tailcoat over."

"Nothing is worth ruining a good tailcoat over according to you." Pierre's tone is half-teasing and half-irritated. Sometimes, Anatole's love affair with fashion baffles him. It seems rather…shallow.

"Well, few things," Anatole acknowledges with a nod, taking a satisfied drink of the wine. He had completely missed Pierre's intonation.

Anatole's manservant approaches them cautiously and hands Anatole a letter. "This came for you earlier, Prince," he says quietly. Anatole picks up the envelope, takes a look at it and his entire expression lights up. He takes the letter opener from the footman's trey and waves the man away. Pierre watches curiously as Anatole opens his letter and begins to read, completely absorbed.

"Who's it from?" Pierre asks. He reaches over to the side table and picks up a book. His books are strewn all over their cozy flat. At first this had baffled and mildly irritated Anatole but the boy had gotten used to them quickly enough. Few things truly bother Anatole, Pierre was coming to realize.

"Teddy Dolokhov," Anatole says distractedly. "Oh he's had the most amusing time lately. This letter is twice as long as the last!" The enthusiasm in Anatole's voice is almost enough to make Pierre jealous. He knows he shouldn't be but he sometimes feels like this Dolokhov has some sort of hold over Anatole, that Anatole holds not simply friendship and affection for this man but also a tremulous sort of admiration.

"What does he write of? Society gossip?"

"Some, but my sister keeps me informed on that account. Theodore mainly talks of the army and the gypsies and some of his adventures with the actresses. They seem to be quite wild for a good, breakneck troika ride. Ha! Who isn't?" Anatole laughs lightly, the sound strangely fragile against the howl and roar of the storm outside. "He seems to be doing quite well at cards now. Oh no…"

"What?"

"He's had a row with some pompous fool. I do hope he doesn't challenge him to a duel. Dolokhov is terribly brash. I admire him for it but it doesn't put me at peace any." Anatole goes quiet after that, reading through the rest of the letter. Pierre watches his face out of the corner of his eye, watches the myriad or expressions that flit across it.

Anatole has no secrets from him and Pierre knows that should be enough, it really ought to be. But he sometimes feels like he can't be enough to his lover. That their passions differ in some key way. Anatole is always carefree while Pierre can get lost in his own thoughts for hours on end. He likes to drink and carouse and flirt with easy women well enough, surely, but it all seems to only be a phase for him, a vice that he would like to, perhaps, but cannot simply shrug off. For Anatole it is not simply a part of his life, it, to him, is so integral to the world that Anatole would likely be surprised to hear that someone would not like to amuse themselves in all the decadent ways the world offers. He does this without malice, with no intent to hurt anyone – in fact, Pierre suspects, if Anatole was told that he may be causing pain to someone, the boy would likely be horrified and confused by such a turn of events. Anatole's fault is simply in being blind to anything beyond the current moment. It is his most frustrating fault and his most endearing feature.

Anatole goes to the study to pen a reply to his childhood friend and Pierre stays in front of the fire, trying to read but in fact simply drifting from one thought to another aimlessly as he has a tendency to do far too often.

* * *

><p>August comes in waves of heat and blazing sun. Anatole rents a cottage outside the city where they stay from the end of July and into early September.<p>

The days are long and lazy. The cottage is by a lake and Pierre likes to take a row boat out in the afternoon with a basket of bread and cheese and barriers and a bottle of wine. Sometimes, they'll wander into the tall grasses of a field and lie among the wildflowers. Pierre reads and Anatole makes out shapes in the clouds or dozes off, his head pillowed on Pierre's stomach. They make love whenever and wherever there is no one to see them and Pierre starts to, once again, forget that their time is limited.

Anatole draws. His sketches are as bad and lopsided as ever but Pierre finds the butterflies and haystacks and village boys that his lover portrays in his albums to be endearing and strangely alive on the paper, despite their imperfection. Pierre tries to learn cards but has no more success at it than when they last tried in April. Anatole is not the best player and he has terrible luck of the draw but he can manage while Pierre seems to lose every time, even with a strong hand.

Pierre has found that he is bad at lots of things: riding, fencing, hunting, dancing… But he is good at reading and thinking and emoting. He is good at being a supportive friend and at having a good time. If he put more thought into it, he may have come to the realization that he wasn't particularly good at being a fitting lover for Anatole, but Anatole never seems to mind and Pierre loves him even more for it. Out of a rather broad range of men whom Anatole could have chosen, he had chosen Pierre and Pierre cannot resist him. Cannot resist his smile, or his pleas for "one more drink" or anything at all. Pierre loves the feeling of freedom and out in the countryside it is that much more enhanced.

On their last day, they stand at the edge of the water and Pierre wraps his arms around Anatole's waist and pulls him in. He breathes in the smell of Anatole's hair and tries to remember every second of this, because far too soon Anatole will leave and God knows what will happen then. Most likely, Pierre will become isolated and lose himself in his books. Anatole will no longer tease him about his constant reading and the books he likes to scatter all over the place, but Pierre thinks he will rather miss this. He will also be free to flirt with actresses and other "easy" women and take them to bed without feeling like he is betraying his lover. Not that Anatole had ever minded – in fact, Anatole seems to separate the two easily. But Pierre had never been easy about it and he never liked how flippant Anatole is about these transgressions either. But all of it pales in comparison to how much Pierre knows he will miss the boy, how much he knows it will hurt and how boring it will be to not have him around.

"I'll miss you," Anatole mumbles after a while, breathing in deeply.

"Let's not…talk about it."

"Alright." Pierre can feel the smirk in Anatole's next words. "I'd rather kiss you anyway."

* * *

><p>"Do write. Do write a lot," Pierre practically begs, holding on to Anatole's wrist tightly. Anatole is going away, back to Petersburg. Away to whatever glorious life awaits a young prince of expansive means such as him. The sky outside is an autumn grey although Pierre doubts it will actually rain.<p>

"Of course I will," Anatole promises, pulling Pierre toward him. Lips find lips and the world turns and flips around for a few moments while they kiss their goodbye, hands roaming over thick fabric, tracing each others bodies in an attempt to memorize their shape and form.

"Must you go?" Pierre gasps when they finally withdraw.

Anatole nods silently. He rubs his nose against Pierre's and giggles childishly. "Maybe you can come for the summers to visit, or I can come down." His smile grows by the minute. "We'll go to our lake house and sunbathe all day. In the meantime, drink lots of fine French wine for me, _mon cheri_."

"Alright," Pierre agrees, smiling dreamily. He lets go of Anatole's hand and walks with him out to the front gate where the carriage with all of Anatole's things is waiting. "_Adieu_!" Pierre calls weakly as the carriage begins to roll and pick up speed. Anatole waves and watches Pierre from the window for a few minutes before sitting back and disappearing from sight.

Pierre watches the carriage drive out of sight. There is a hole deep within his chest and he struggles to fill it up. The streets seem emptier without Anatole and all the colors faded. He takes in a long breath and holds it, then lets it out and turns away from the street. The empty flat is full of reminders and Pierre wonders if he will be able stand it day in and day out. He picks up a book and loses himself in the reading.

He gets used to the emptiness eventually.


	3. Part II

For three years they write warm, loving letters. Anatole constantly peppers his with such outrageous things that Pierre is afraid that if someone was to ever discover them they would both be ruined. At some point, about a year or so after Anatole's departure, the letters become a little more scarce and scant in detail, the innuendoes less obvious and less frequent. Pierre doesn't notice it at first but soon he recognizes that there has been a slight shift in tone. He does not think about it too much. After all, it would be strange if either of them had remained quite as miserable and desperate as they had been at the beginning of their separation. Anatole talks about Dolokhov a lot more in his later letters and his tone is usually that of admiration and affection. Pierre has to admit that he is somewhat jealous but Anatole signs every letter "je t'aime" and Pierre has no reason to not believe him.

When they see each other again, however, it becomes plainly obvious that things had changed. Anatole is as glamorous and beautiful as ever. He greets Pierre with an embrace and a warm smile. "I'll introduce you to my lot here; I'm sure you'll get on," he says. They do get on, surprisingly even with Dolokhov who now lives with Anatole under the guise of flatmates. Anatole still kisses him when they're both drunk but never asks him to stay or stays himself.

They'd lost something over the years, Pierre can feel it. The re-introduction of Dolokhov into Anatole's life and Andrei Bolkonski into Pierre's does not go without effect. Pierre struggles to understand his own feelings and fails miserably. He wants to be back in Paris where he did not have to compete for Anatole's affection at every turn, he wants to not feel hurt and betrayed by the fact that Anatole has obviously taken a new lover. He wants to be like Andrei – collected and wise and well-respected. But Andrei looks down on him just like the rest of society – even if he means no harm or malice by this – and Anatole does not seem to love him any longer. And Pierre cannot sort out his own feelings for long enough to make sense of what he ought to do in his conundrum of a situation. He constantly feels lost and dissatisfied and Anatole is the easiest person to blame for that.

* * *

><p>"Stop associating with Kuragin and his lot."<p>

Pierre looks up from the book that he has been pretending to read and meets Andrei's steady, heavy gaze. He shuts the book and puts it down on the coffee table in front of him, regarding his old friend with a thoughtful, somewhat pitiful expression. "Why should I not want to get drunk with the only people who care about me? Everyone else sees a joke in me. At least Anatole takes me seriously."

Andrei scoffs, pacing across the room to the window, then back to the bookshelf. "Does he, Pierre? The way he carries on with Dolokhov in front of you? Is that how seriously he takes you?"

Pierre looks down, uncertain whether to be offended or not. He is certain that Anatole and Dolokhov are involved but after three years apart he could have hardly expected someone as glamorous as Anatole to stay completely faithful. Over the past few months, Pierre has also discovered that he really is no competition for Dolokhov. Theodore is smarter, better looking, and much more daring and confident than Pierre could ever dream of being. Pierre can hardly blame Anatole for falling in love with such a man.

He also has no proof that Anatole has replaced him, nothing that he could point to, only his own observations as to how close Anatole and Dolokhov are, how Anatole looks at his long-time friend, how their own relationship has changed. Pierre does not have the best intuition in the world, but once he becomes convinced of something, he has a hard time seeing past it.

"Drop him. All of them," Andrei insists.

Pierre stares blankly at the candle burning on the writing table, his hands playing absentmindedly with the corners of the pages of the book in his lap. The dancing candle flame throws shadows across the room. Shadows that flicker and move and shift… "You're not being fair, Andrei," he says softly, unable to meet his friend's eyes. "It's not like you would have me. You're married, anyway. It's selfish of you to ask me to leave someone who at least makes me happy. I know I complain a lot that Anatole does not understand me but… We have fun…and I…"

Andrei looks back and walks to him, eyes narrowed slightly. "I would tell you to leave anyone whom I did not think worthy of you, Pierre. Besides, these perversions are not honorable and I strongly suggest that you do not indulge in them. Think what sort of life you are leading."

"Do you suggest I get married?"

Andrei makes a frustrated gesture. "No, of course not. You have so much potential; do not tie yourself down until you have reached and achieved all you can. But leading this life, allowing these depravities to control you will hinder you as much, if not more, than any marriage."

Pierre looks down, feeling guilty and upset. He has always admired Andrei's opinion a great deal. "They all seem happy…"

"Pierre, name me a single honorable man who indulges in all this depravity – the drinking, the hooliganisms, the actresses, the sodomy? Anatole and Dolokhov – their only goal in life is self indulgence."

Pierre nods. He knows it is all no good. His father had told him, on his return to Russia, to make something of himself. To find a career. But in all these months, all he has done is spend his entire allowance and watch with dread as Anatole slips further away from him. It also seems that the more Pierre tries to address this, tries to tell Anatole that he isn't happy, that he feels aimless and lost in this life they lead, that, perhaps, Anatole should at least try to put some reigns on, the more his lover draws away, bulks at every comment.

Pierre thinks of Anatole and his sweet smile and beautiful eyes, his acceptance and loving touches. He thinks of Dolokhov and his cold but intelligent and mesmerizing manner. He thinks of how careless Anatole is in showing his affection for Dolokhov in front of him and how much it hurts to know that he is slowly being displaced because he is not quite as daring and dashing and captivating. Because Anatole does not want to hear what Pierre has to say, does not want to stop and think and try to come to some sort of common understanding. Pierre feels that Anatole simply believes that everything is alright even though it's not and Pierre does not know how to get this across without hurting anyone. Then, also, Pierre has always believed that Andrei understands people better than he does and thinks that if Andrei says someone is scum then he is right. "You know he – Anatole – invited me tonight," Pierre says slowly, looking up into Andrei's face. "I won't go."

Andrei smiles approvingly and nods, asking for his word, and Pierre feels he has made the right choice.

* * *

><p>Pierre ends up at Anatole's party anyway, because saying no to Anatole is hard. And besides, he had already promised.<p>

The entire night is later a blur to Pierre. They end up extremely drunk – Dolokhov drinks an entire bottle of rum while sitting on the windowsill for a bet – and out carousing with the actresses and a pet bear. When the police come for them, they tie the policeman to the bear and throw them into the Moika. Pierre never finds out what happened to either.

It is also the first time since his return that Anatole takes him back to his flat and they end up in bed together. The sex is strangely hectic, drunken and desperate, clumsy, like they had never been with each other before. After, Pierre lies awake despite his intoxication as Anatole lies beside him, head buried into the pillow. He feels sick and isn't sure if the feeling is caused by his impending hangover or the guilt from having lied to Andrei.

"I don't know if this is working anymore, Anatole. I don't know if I can do this anymore," he mumbles, staring up at the celling. He is both happy and unhappy at the same time. He thinks of earlier that evening when they had been at the actresses'. Pierre had a girl in his lap and was preoccupied with playing with her corset lacing. He was never quite as brash as the other young men – girls scared him for some reason. He'd seen out of the corner of his eye Dolokhov pulling Anatole behind a curtain and they hadn't emerged from there for what seemed like a very long time. Pierre hates being jealous, he doesn't understand the feeling – it eats up at him and he wallows in it. He would do the same if he was Anatole, surely. He would leave someone as awkward and inept as himself and go for someone as dashing and daring as Dolokhov. Certainly, Anatole couldn't be to blame for how he feels. But Pierre cannot decide if this is all in his head or in reality. And Andrei is right, very right, this life is useless and aimless and he has no idea what he wants to do with himself. He'd often dreamed of making the world a better place but has no understanding of how he can do that. But obviously drinking and fucking was not the way to go. "Anatole?" He turns to look at Anatole only to find his lover fast asleep. How terribly typical.

Pierre leaves before Anatole is awake the next morning. In the hall he runs into Dolokhov who is returning from wherever he had spent the night. They don't say anything to each other but the disdainful look Dolokhov gives him says it all.

* * *

><p>Pierre goes to Moscow and doesn't see Anatole for months. Who he does see is Anatole's sister, Helene. She is as beautiful as a woman possibly could be, a flawless female copy of her brother. She is not at all like Anatole in temperament, however. Where Anatole is impulsive, she is pragmatic, where he is carefree she is proper, where he is outgoing and charming she is withdrawn and serene. But she looks like him enough to catch Pierre's attention. He is drawn to her physically and though he knows this is wrong, that is must be wrong, he cannot help himself. She is perfect in her cold, collected beauty and when she smiles at him it has an effect of drawing him to her like a moth is drawn to the flame.<p>

He does not love her but he does desire her and something tells Pierre that he surely must marry her. Everyone seems to expect this of him and he has no will left of his own, it seems. After his father's death, Anatole's silence, the strange novelty of society's adoration of him and all the means in the world to do whatever he pleases, Pierre simply wants stability. A marriage, especially one which everyone seems to expect of him and considers a good idea, and to a woman he desires seems like the right thing to do at the time. And on his wedding night, when Pierre takes his new wife to bed and looks into her misty grey eyes, he sees her brother and is not for one moment as conflicted about this as he rightfully should have been. It all seems like a fine right solution.

It turns out to be a horrible mistake.

* * *

><p>"Give it back!" Pierre roars. He knows deep inside that he is acting like a bratty child, squabbling publically over a piece of paper. At least, that's what it must look like from the outside. But deep inside, somewhere very far, in the place from where all of his present range is seeping in quantities that he has never felt before, he knows that this is not about a sheet of paper or propriety or rank or respect. It's about something far more intimate and personal, something only they are aware of.<p>

"I won't," Dolokhov says coldly, looking him straight in the eyes and Pierre knows that they are speaking of the same thing, of the same person.

And he snaps. "You're a scoundrel, Dolokhov, and I challenge you!"

"I accept." Dolokhov smirks and drinks his wine, knowing he can win this fight without trying. Pierre has never shot a gun, never had the need to. As he drives home, Pierre doesn't understand himself, his state of mind is feverish and confused. He only knows that he hates Dolokhov in that moment, Dolokhov who can and has and will take everything from him. Anatole was not enough, now he wanted his wife too, his only chance for stability, for self-respect. He knows by now that Helene does not love him and he knows he does not love her. If she did betray him – she must have – then he has nothing left to hold on to in this marriage and thus it is empty.

He hates Helene too for taking away what he had left of the fragile place he had built up for himself in society and in his own mind, for showing him that it wasn't just Anatole that he couldn't hold on to.

After the duel, he will blame her even more than Dolokhov. Dolokhov's motives he understands – no one could resist Anatole.

After the duel, Pierre wonders if perhaps it was all his fault to begin with.

* * *

><p>Anatole bursts into his study without knocking and without being announced. His arrival is so sudden and unexpected that Pierre practically drops the book on freemasonry that he had been reading.<p>

"How dare you! What gave you the right—what made you think you had the right to _do that_!" Anatole begins without waiting for Pierre to even acknowledge that he is there. "Of all the stupid things—Oh, Pierre, _what have you done_?"

"Anatole…" Pierre is so completely baffled by this outburst that he cannot even understand right away what it is that Anatole is going on about. He fixes his glasses and studies Anatole's face intently. It's only then he realizes that the boy has been crying. "You know then?"

"Know? Of course I know! Helene wrote to me. I won't even go into what you have done to her – to humiliate her in front of all of society like that without even _thinking—_But no, no, let that be for now, but _how could you?_"

"I didn't _want _to kill anyone!" Pierre protests helplessly. He can feel it again, growing deep inside of him, that monster that had challenged Dolokhov, that had thrown the paperweight at Helene. "But I didn't exactly have a choice!"

"You had a choice to not challenge him! A duel! Over what? Over a friendship? Do you not have friends, Pierre, who you do not sleep with? My God, and now you've…couldn't you have at least thought of _me_? He's my best friend. I love—" Anatole breaks off and looks away. He is flushed and agitated and once again close to tears.

The anger in Pierre bubbles even hotter. It was Anatole that he had been thinking of. It was always about Anatole. Regardless of his anger at Helene, regardless of if she had been faithful of not – although he still believes in her adultery – it had been firstly about Anatole. And here his lover stands, shouting at him for killing – or nearly killing – his best friend, practically being only a step short of admitting that he loved the man and having no regards for Pierre's own feelings. Having no regard for the fact that they had been in love that Pierre had built his youth around that love, had dedicated himself to it, lost his way in it.

"You should leave, Anatole," he says bitterly, forcing himself to stay calm, to not do another violent thing he will later regret.

"Leave? You're asking me to leave without even explaining? Pierre, what is wrong with you, I don't understand anything…Maybe there is something Helene did not tell me, something that you know or think you know? Mon cheri, _please…_"

The endearment is enough to make Pierre's self-control break. "Everything is wrong, Anatole! Your friend Dolokhov has an affair with my wife, your sister has been unfaithful to me and all you can do is stand here and accuse _me. _Do you not see how vile it all is? Nothing but lies and betrayal! And you, you have the audacity to complain that have I been thoughtless toward you! All the time you spent with Dolokhov, did you think I would not notice? Have you...has he made love to you?" Pierre flushes at his own words but he presses on, now unable to stop, especially when Anatole does not instantly launch into a denial. "The two of you keep secrets, you write to him and not to me, did you _think I would not notice_?"

Anatole manages to look baffled and hurt at the same time. When he speaks again, some of the hysteria is gone from his voice and there is an edge of bitterness to his words which Pierre has never heard before. "What would you like me to say, Pierre? Ever since you have been back, you have been all over the place. You are happy one day and go on and on the next about how everything we do it wrong. You spend more time with Bolkonski than I do with Dolokhov – should I be jealous? – you tell everyone outright what a wonderful man he is but you seem to be embarrassed of me anywhere that isn't among our mutual lot—"

"That's not true!"

"But it is. I know how it is, Pierre. Could you blame me for turning to someone who does not judge me? I've never cared much what people think of me but I'd rather not associate with those who actively try to bring me down. You've been wanting to do something different, to stop associating with us – with me – for the longest time. You've simply never had the nerve or willpower to. You keep saying how the way we live is wrong, but why? Do we harm anyone? No. Well what then?"

Pierre stares at him in disbelief. These are not Anatole' words, they couldn't be. Anatole is not nearly that perceptive or observant… Anatole isn't, but Dolokhov is. "Did Dolokhov tell you all this?"

"Does it matter? He is right, after all. Tell me he isn't right, Pierre."

He is, and Pierre finds himself at a loss. "It's not…I never meant it like that…" he attempts weakly, looking at his lover with helpless desperation.

Anatole looks hurt. He stands in the middle of the study for a few more seconds, looking uncertainly at Pierre, obviously thinking something over, then turns on his heel and heads for the door.

Pierre collapses in his chair and breathes out, tiredly, too emotionally exhausted to panic but unable to hold the question in. "Where are you going now?"

Without looking back, Anatole says, "To Moscow."

* * *

><p>Almost a year later, Pierre runs into Dolokhov in Moscow. "I do hope you are enjoying peace of mind, Count, even with your wife's absence," Dolokhov tells him. His tone is flat, almost sincere, but Pierre cannot get past the thought that Dolokhov is baiting him again. But by this time Pierre is so deeply immersed in his freemasonry pursuits that he does not deem it well to start a fight over something that should have be forgotten and forgiven between them.<p>

"Do you write to Anatole?" he asks instead of an answer. The words come of their own accord; Pierre had not even known how much he had wanted to ask just that until the question came tumbling out.

Dolokhov eyes him suspiciously, one eyebrow raised in question. "Yes?"

"How is he?" Pierre feels a sudden trepidation. He doesn't know what he wants to hear but he is certain that whatever it is that Dolokhov does say will not leave him alone for the rest of the day.

"He's well. He's left for the army recently." Pierre nods and is about to leave when Dolokhov calls him back. "Count? …He misses you." Dolokhov makes a small grimace at the words as though they pain him.

Pierre does not give an answer before leaving. He sits for over an hour in his study that night, staring uncertainly at a blank page, quill in hand, unable to put a single word to paper. All his feelings are too confused. He has finally found the stability that neither his wild affair with Anatole nor his mistake of a marriage had afforded him. Freemasonry is truly a blessing and Pierre indulges himself in the search for the truth, yearns to be a better man, knows that he is now accomplishing what Andrei had always told him he is capable of, even if Andrei himself has changed his views on life as of late. But Pierre is still haunted from time to time by dreams of Anatole in the mist of a fresh Parisian morning and the ache he feels at hearing that Anatole misses him is real.

But he can't bring himself to write, because he knows that Anatole will never change who he is, will not want to embark on the search of truth with Pierre and Pierre simply refuses to go back to the meaningless, decadent life he had led back then. He doesn't know if these things belong in a letter and he does not wish to sound too harsh, does not wish to be misunderstood.

In the end, Pierre decides to not write. It is easier if they both forget. After all, if Anatole misses him so much, he would write first.

* * *

><p>For the longest time, Pierre's life takes a turn for the better. Freemasonry preoccupies him and he dedicates himself to improving the lives of others. For some time, this is enough. He feels himself useful and accomplished.<p>

The euphoria does not last, however. Soon he begins to slowly realize that all of his reforms are fruitless, he is a stranger in his own house – his wife holds glamorous parties which Pierre finds alienating – and he becomes disillusioned not so much with freemasonry itself as with the brotherhood. There are few men there whom Pierre considers to be like himself – in constant search for truth. He has all the friends in the world, people constantly seeking his favor, but no true ones. Andrei may be the one exception but he is constantly far away and preoccupied with his own matters. Pierre feels more like a child than an equal around his old friend and although they are as close as ever, Pierre cannot bring himself to confide in Bolkonski the depth of his dismay that nothing had gone as he had wanted it to.

At some point, he stops missing Anatole and that in itself is a blessing.

* * *

><p>Anatole re-inserts himself into Pierre's life in a fashion that only Anatole is capable of: easily, as though this is not a strange thing to occur.<p>

The young prince simply shows up at Pierre's door one afternoon and asks if he can stay there for some time while he is in Moscow. Pierre hesitates but cannot quite refuse. This is Helene's house too and Anatole is her brother, after all. They avoid each other awkwardly for a couple of days only to end up across the sitting room from each other on the third night of Anatole's stay. Anatole has his back to Pierre, his forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window as he contemplates the darkness outside. Pierre sits on the sofa and stares thoughtfully into the fire. The silence between them is tense and pregnant with words neither of them can quite bring themselves to say.

"I never meant for things to go badly between us," Anatole says finally without turning around.

Pierre sighs and looks down at his lap. Longing and bitterness battle deep within him. He has become so terribly disillusioned with everything he had begun to believe in as of late that he wonders if letting go of Anatole was the right choice to make. "We weren't right for each other, I suppose."

Anatole turns and looks at him. His expression is distant but completely open. Anatole had always been completely open and trusting that no one could ever wish to truly hurt him, that everything he did was right and honest. This confidence had always made Pierre irritated, perhaps in light of his own constant self-doubt. "Weren't we? I remember very well being perfectly happy. Do you remember Paris at all, Pierre?"

There is tangible sadness in Anatole's tone and Pierre flinches slightly. "We were very young, yes," he mumbles. He remembers too clearly. He remembers his confusion and his joy and how lost he was but how he wanted to remain lost if it meant being lost with Anatole. But he has changed since then, found a truer path in life – about that Andrei was right: alcohol and sex would never make him happy. What he had with Anatole had to have been a terrible farce, a misguided indulgence. It was proved to him later, by Dolokhov and Helene and Anatole himself – that entire sordid affair. "I forgive you, you know."

Anatole's eyebrows shoot up. "You forgive me? For what?"

"For Dolokhov—"

"Pierre-"

"No let me finish. I don't blame you, in fact I am a little jealous of you. You live your life so freely, without ever wondering what life is about and what the meaning of it all is." He notices the confused look on Anatole's face and shakes his head. He had never been able to knock down that wall. "I think that's what I saw in Helene when I married her: she is beautiful like you and self-indulgent like you. You were right, though, I do not love her. I was willing to try but…"

Now Anatole looks both hurt and confused. "I don't understand what you're saying."

"No, of course not."

"Pierre!" Anatole comes over and sits beside him. Frustration is bubbling up within him; Pierre can see it in his eyes. "I turned to Teddy when I felt alone, yes, after, after everything. But I had always wanted to be _with you. _I _like_ being with you and I don't give a damn if it's wrong or right or the meaning of life. What does that even mean? Isn't the point of life just…I don't know…to live?"

It is so simple when Anatole puts it like that. So simple when Pierre looks into his eyes and when Anatole's lips find his. Simple enough for Pierre to believe him, if only for a moment. Enough for him to reconsider, to start joining Anatole on his outings with their old lot, to find himself in that life he had sworn that he had abandoned. Enough to kiss Anatole in the first snow almost a month after that conversation.

"If I tell you a secret will you keep it for me?" Anatole asks, peering into Pierre's face in the evening gloom as the snow covers the top of his head, gets tangled in his fine hair. "Can I trust you, Pierre?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Pierre mumbles against Anatole's neck. He doesn't know if he wants this back, but he can't resist it anymore. And if Anatole wants to rebuild trust, Pierre will not object.

That's when he finds out Anatole is married. When Anatole tells him of the entire ludicrous and sad situation he probably thinks this will save them.

Instead, it tears them apart irreparably.

* * *

><p>The fiasco with Natasha shatters something deep inside Pierre. He associates himself so deeply with her, with her insane infatuation with Anatole, with his betrayal of that trust, with the heartache he brings her not because he is insincere but because he is <em>too <em>sincere, incapable or unwilling to understand how damaging his decisions to give into his fancies are. He feels so betrayed – not just for before, but for now, for what they had started to build again – that he lashes out in the only way he can. He tells Natasha that Anatole is married and then goes to force a confrontation. Pierre could not save himself, he could not save Andrei the grief and Anatole had never wanted saving in the first place. The vengeful monster inside Pierre is once again awake and in control.

When Anatole looks at him stunned and betrayed and asks, "You told her that I am married?" as though by this Pierre as good as shot him in the head, Pierre snaps and pushes Anatole to the floor, throws every suffered-out accusation that he has. He acts distanced from the situation, all of his rage harnessed for the purpose of defending Natasha.

But when Anatole leaves, shell shocked and yet defiant and unwilling to explain himself – "you never listen anyway" – there is only one person Pierre truly hates: himself.

* * *

><p>Pierre learns of Anatole's death in the same minute as he learns of Andrei's. At that moment he is too overwhelmed to think but later he thinks how incredible it is that in the same breath he lost two of the most defining people in his life, the two men he loved who constantly drove a wedge in his relationship with the other, whether knowingly or not.<p>

He lies awake that night, his mind conjuring up visions of assassinating Napoleon whom he has come to loath, and suddenly realizes that he will never again have Andrei to stabilize him, to gift him with some wise insight or inspiration. He will also never again see Anatole and feel the pang in his stomach when the boy smiles.

Pierre had never wanted to be alone – in fact, he had always longed for companionship and love and acceptance. Something he never quite got. And now, he is completely alone, with no one to impose any moral or emotional restrictions on him but also no one to come home to.

Pierre Bezukhov is twenty-seven years old.


	4. Epilogue

It was painfully obvious that no one had been to the flat for years as it had fallen into a slight state of disrepair, accumulating dust and probably a family of rats as well. Pierre still had the key, even though it had been years since he used it. The fact that he had kept it struck him as odd and the fact that Anatole had not sold the flat or had not been forced to do so was also strange. Although, perhaps Prince Vasili did not know that Anatole had retained the property; he had not known of Anatole's marriage after all.

Pierre walked to the window and pulled back the thick curtains, flung open the shutters. Warm, bright sunlight instantly flooded the room. The golden light seemed to hang in the air, made visible by the accumulation of dust. Not much was left in their flat, but the furniture was mostly there and a few abandoned trinkets and books there and here made in undoubtable _their _flat.

Pierre breathed in and instantly caught the smell of croissants. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as the memories crept up to the forefront of his mind. He had been so happy that summer. If he had ever felt at peace before his marriage to Natasha, Pierre thinks it must have been here, with Anatole's arms firmly wound around his waist and the boy's lips on his neck. If he had ever felt loved and accepted it must have been here.

He had changed so much in the last ten or so years but those memories had not and Pierre could not help but wonder if maybe he could have done something differently, been less afraid, perhaps. Anatole had never tried to push him away, Pierre had always done all the pushing. He realized this only now, only after he had read and re-read his old letters. The ones that Anatole had kept. _Kept._ He did not think that everything he did was wrong or unjustifiable or that his life came out badly. But he wondered if perhaps the hurtful things he said to Anatole at the end were righteous for all the wrong reasons; if maybe he was lashing out at his own helplessness to survive in a word that was less than perfect. If, maybe, he found a soulmate in Natasha because they had both nearly destroyed themselves by wanting something forbidden and passionate and, at the end of the day, no less pure.

Pierre took out the pack of letters Dolokhov had given him, as well as everything else he had managed to find among his old things that pertained to Anatole in any way, and laid them out on the broad windowsill. He needed to figure out who actually owned the flat and if he could sell it or needed to tell Prince Vasili about it. He needed to hurry back home from his "business trip" to his pregnant wife. But just then, just for that one morning, he wanted to remember.

It would be his apology, for all the things he had or might have done wrong.


End file.
